


There's no time for us

by AinhoaCR



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley relationship with Mercury, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AinhoaCR/pseuds/AinhoaCR
Summary: Something happened when Aziraphale told Crowley he was going too fast.





	There's no time for us

**Author's Note:**

> *This is my first fic ever, I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing.  
> **I'm not a native English speaker, so if you see something wrong just tell me and if you're interested and you want to help me just say WAHOO.  
> ***I know Who wants to live forever was written by Brian May, but you know...

Kensington-1991  
Once I went to see him, do you know? It was one of the times we argued. You vanished for months, and I was furious, I did not understand why you felt so devoted to him if he did not love you, at least he did not as I did, as I do. Now I look back and see how silly I was, how stupid and childish, how foolish...  
(A sad smile crosses his face and looks much younger and much older at the same time. Crowley's heart skips a beat. "I should not have left it so long," he cursed internally)  
I arrived at him Soho bookstore one afternoon, you know I'm not such as a morning person. Anyway, I approached a little before the closing time, and I sensed that it would not have many people around and that benefited me, I wanted to confront him, show him that you were with me, that you had forgotten him, that you did not care anymore, even if it was a lie. I was so jealous, so desperate to have you by my side that nothing mattered to me anymore.  
I reached the door, and for a moment, I lacked courage. You had spoken to me so many times about him; I could almost say I knew him. Did you ever tell him about our meetings or me? About the warm and endless afternoons we both lay in the bed of your apartment, smoking hashish, drinking wine (Oh, but never French, French wine was just for him, for both of you. Ours was Italian, Liguria, but never French. Since then I always hated French wine, the sweetness turned vinegar in my mouth) I saw my own reflection on the glass door. I was Freddie Mercury; there was no one like me, nobody could be equal to me, least of all a Soho bookseller, Mr. Fell. Do you know? In spite of everything you had told me, I never thought of him as an angel, for me, he was only the man who stood between you and me. I had never believed you completely when you said you were a demon; I thought that was how you felt comfortable, it was a pose, a character that you have created around you, a shield, a way to protect yourself. "Look at me; I am the Devil. I am evil and tempting, and your opinions certainly do not matter to me. "  
The fact is that I entered, displaying all my histrionics, because what is it worth to be me if they can’t recognize me wherever I go? I wanted to make a triumphal entry, you know how I am, I was ready to arrive and win, and I remember, dear Anthony, that the first thing I thought when I crossed the threshold was that the man who lived there was lucky. I know you've been countless times in his bookstore, so maybe the routine will no longer allow you to enjoy it, but Anthony, The Light! The light spilled on the shelves changing everything it touched. I remember inhaling deeply, surprised, and I got the smell of old leather, paper, and soap. And I felt peace, Anthony, my old and rough heart felt blessed, calm, quiet. I do no longer felt it tumultuous in my chest; I no longer felt angry; I felt ... safe.  
From behind a shelf came a figure, at first I did not recognize him because he was in the shadows, but then I immediately knew. The curls arranged like a halo, incredibly white, like a wreath of lilies, and the eyes, those damn and beautiful blue eyes. How many times have you told me about them? How many times have I cursed the affection that your words convey talking about them?  
You know, my dear? I do not remember anything else beyond those eyes. Do not ask me about his vest, tie or shirt, if it were cream, white, even if he had been dressed in crimson and high heels, nothing, absolutely nothing like that, I would have been as shocked as his eyes. God, Anthony, a man could get lost in those eyes, could die for those eyes, could kill by those eyes. Eyes like his have lost empires. I never understood the term "Eyes as stars" until I saw him.

(A spasm runs through the skinny, exhausted and fragile body. He takes a sip of water that Mary brings to him. "Thank you Mary, my love")  
He approached me "Welcome to my little bookstore. What a pleasure; I'm Mr. Fell. May I help you?" I remember several things at once. I remember thinking that his lips were more beautiful than yours, Anthony, a bit darker than pink, as if they had been kissed repeatedly.  
And consequently I wanted to kiss them myself, punish them and subdue them, and that thought scared me, almost blasphemous. How could I be thinking of storming the man who had welcomed me to his home? Because I knew it, I knew that this was his home, not a distant and cold Heaven, no. There, between those walls full of books and dust, the heart of the man who was standing before me lied.  
I remember feeling angry when I realized that he had not the faintest idea who I was. I must admit, love, that my ego felt mistreated. How could it be? What fucking planet that man lived, for Heaven's sake, not to recognize me, ME, Freddie Mercury, the most celebrated artist who has given this country in ages!  
I should have been silent for a few seconds because I remember his frown, and his worried expression "Are you okay?" He asked me. I redid myself as best I could, and I prepared myself. Nobody could say my parents wasted their money on my education.  
"Yes, of course, Mr. Fell. Let me introduce myself", I said, extending my hand. "I am Farrokh, but everyone knows me as Freddie, Freddie Mercury. "  
"Oh, but of course, Mr. Mercury, I'm so sorry I did not recognize you, but my musical taste seems to be a bit ... outdated, somebody told me," he replied with a breathtaking smile on his face, shaking my hand. "And can I ask you what brings you to my bookstore?" Do not take it the wrong way, but I'm just a small local bookseller."  
"Do not be modest, Mr. Fell, do not fit you at all. It is well-known that you are one of the most renowned experts in the country, as well as one of the most elusive. I would never have imagined that a man of your knowledge was hiding here. In any case, dear Mr. Fell, I have come because I need your help. "I Answered". "A ... a very, very dear friend of mine and I have separated in not very good terms," I explained to him, while taking his arm "I am afraid he had taken my jealousy as a somewhat impertinent show of affection, you know how men are" I said while smiling, with a little affectation. I loved watching his skin began to blush by the neck as he swallowed nervously, his eyes became a little darker and slightly larger. I could almost hear the subtle "oh" that formed on his lips "I understand" he replied.  
"So, should I assume that your friend is a passionate reader?" He asked me with a thin voice. ""Oh, dear, my dear Anthony's passions are innumerable, almost endless. Like his abilities. For example, he has a nearly diabolical skill for languages ... "I replied, with a bit of malice, you know how I am.  
I must admit, dear Anthony, that at that moment your Lord Fell seemed to be the most beautiful creature on earth, standing there, absolutely flushed and ashamed, like a virgin in front of her first lover ... there was something incredibly pure and surprisingly seductive in him. Now I understand that you continue to hope for him after so many years.  
"And have you thought about something specific for your ... friend Anthony?" He replied, his voice a little shaky, trying to regain his composure" Or maybe I should understand that your friend is not your friend at all, but perhaps something closer? "  
"Not all lovers can be friends neither all friends can be lovers, "I replied, maybe revealing something more than I intended "Anthony is all that and much more to me. There is nothing I could do not for him. And yet ..." The truth is that I did not know very well what I wanted to say, but incredibly, I think he did since he nodded. "I see" he smiled at me, with a sad smile, as if he understood what my foolish heart did not.  
"Do you know Quevedo? "He asked, changing the subject, trying to lighten the atmosphere, which suddenly had become somewhat melancholy," No. I can't say I do, but surely you are going to tell me "I replied with a smile. "Of course, Mr. Mercury," he replied enthusiastically, with his glowing smile.  
"Quevedo was a great writer. He belongs to the Spanish Golden Age, nearly 1600 AD. You see, many people think, and rightly so, that Cervantes is the great Spanish writer of all times. But in poetry, I must admit that my favorite one is Quevedo, "he said as he carefully chose a small book from a bookshelf. "Shakespeare is always a safe bet, but if your friend Anthony is as extraordinary as you say, an edition of Shakespeare's sonnets will not impress him, no matter how lavish and wonderful it may be. Everyone in this country knows Shakespeare. Instead, Quevedo is a virtually unknown writer here, and if you say that your friend Anthony is so skilled with languages ... "He smiled at me, mischievous, at the same time he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, look, read this ..."  
You will forgive me, dear Anthony, if at this moment I do not remember the entire sonnet, it was written in Spanish, which I did not speak at that time, but I do remember the last three verses:  
Your body will leave, not your care;  
They will be ash, but it will make sense;  
Dust they will be, more dust in love.  
How much pain and how much strength were in so few words! Dust they will be, more dust in love. How wonderful, Anthony. I understood the poet at the time; I knew what he had felt when wrote those verses! I felt the heart in my throat, the tears slide down my cheeks, the emotion prevented me from speaking ... and suddenly your Mr. Fell took me by the hand ...  
(A solitary tear slips down the patient's emaciated cheek, sliding to the corner of dry, chapped lips from fever and disease. Lovely Mary brings a glass of water to him, and he takes a small sip. Crowley, sitting next to him on the bed, takes his hand and kisses his palm, waiting for the man to return to tell his story. Behind the dark lenses, Crowley's eyes get wet.  
"I do not remember much more, my love. I know that Mr. Fell asked me several times if I was okay, but I just wanted to pay and leave. The beauty and pain in those verses had hit me so hard that I just wanted to get home and get drunk with our Italian wine while cursing some stupid bookseller with too lovely blue eyes and too inquisitive mind ... too clever for their own good.  
"In the end, I did not give you my gift. You came back one day, and we reconciled, and I forgot it completely. Years later, when our love was over, I found it again and wrote a song for your Mr. Fell. Maybe I had already assumed that he was an angel; that you had lived forever, and that you two were condemned to turn around each other, going around and around, without being able to touch each other until the world is over. Do you know Anthony? I think he does not know; he does not want to know, because knowing something forces you to act, either in one way or another, but he is in love with you. Horribly and desperately in love. It may take a year, ten, a hundred or a thousand more, but please, Anthony, do not leave him as impossible. Do not lose hope, please, Anthony, please, his eyes ...  
(The voice goes out. Mary brings Crowley a small book, embossed with leather, the shapes are typical of the Spanish Golden Age, calfskin, high-quality paper, and on its first page, with a tight calligraphy, read in Old Castilian "For my great friend Aezekiel Fell, may your adventure through English lands be profitable to you ." Crowley strokes the soft skin of its back with his fingertips as he watches the man lying next to him. The book gently down a small written page:  
There's no time for us; there's no place for us ...  
Crowley needn't read the rest of the line, knowing by heart the rest.  
What is this thing That builds our dreams,  
Yet slips away from us.?  
Because, in the end, Who wants to live forever?

London-1967  
"I'm leaving, Crowley."  
They were having dinner in a small pub in Soho. Which means that Aziraphale was having dinner, and Crowley was trying to get drunk as fast as possible. The words that the angel had said a few weeks ago still resounded in his head like a devilishly tuned chant. "You're going too fast for me, Crowley." Both pretended that those words had not been said: Crowley because he still felt confused and Aziraphale ... well, nobody knew what Aziraphale was thinking. The devil had undoubtedly made a firm decision not to worry about the angel's thoughts; he had enough to try to decipher his own feelings.  
The demon blinked, confused.  
"Excuse me, angel, what do you say?"  
Aziraphale snorted and said again a little louder this time.  
"I'm leaving. I have received instructions from Heaven. They want me to move temporarily to Cambodia. It seems things are getting worse and they want to have someone there in case the worst happens, in the front line, as they say. I'm leaving tomorrow, "said the angel, playing with his beer mug, avoiding the demon's gaze, which now had suddenly returned to sobriety.  
"How long?"  
"I do not know Crowley, whichever is necessary."  
"Damn it, angel ..."  
"Damn it what, Crowley? You know how this works, it's not like either of us was a rookie. It's what we do, "said the angel, raising his voice slightly, with an edge of anger in his words.  
"If this is because of the other week, I can assure you that I did not intend ..."  
"Oh, do you think I'm going to Cambodia, a country in the middle of some civil war because I can’t handle just a bit of emotional drama? Really? The angel replied, raising an eyebrow, in the most Anthony J. Crowley mood. "I'm leaving because it's my duty. I'm an angel; I go there where they need me."  
"To fix what they have spoiled, as always."  
"Crowley ..."  
"No angel, They always choose the easiest exit. Instead of letting people choose their own path, they engage in their skullduggery in the shadows. They always do, both Up and Down. "How can we screw them today"? It seems to be his motivation day by day. Free Will? It is not free will when you play with marked cards. Humanity has no chance when Supernatural "Diplomacy" comes into play. Humans are just pawns in this game, and you know it, "Crowley said, pointing to Aziraphale with his finger." And you, who dance the music they play, you, too, are a pawn. If they say you jump, you do. If they tell you to dance, you do. What would you not be able to do for them, Zira? Would you be able to kill me if they ever ask you? Have you ever asked yourself? If they came for me, would you let them kill me?  
"Do you think I want to leave? Do you think I want to leave behind everything that matters to me here; my books, my shop, the walks, the dinners, even YOU? But it's my duty, Crowley. You speak very grandiloquently about free will, humanity, or significant gestures. Tell me, my dear friend, in how many wars have we been since the beginning of time? Do you think that everything I do is due to I want, I do not know, to gain prestige in Heaven? Seriously? After so many years? I do it for them because they do not have anyone else. I do it for the parents who lose their children and for the children who lose their parents; for the children who born and die without knowing other things than misery and sorrow; for those who suffer abuses in every war and revolt all around the world. Because I can assure you that nobody UP is going to do, and certainly neither DOWN. And since you ask me if I would let them come for you, have you considered what could happen to me if they find out I gave you the Holy Water? You, who have gone through it, one of the Fallen, would you want me to do it?  
"So, do you really care about me?" Replied the devil in a low and trembling voice, brushing with his hand the hand that the angel had on the table.  
"You are my best friend, Crowley," Aziraphale replied without looking into Crowley's eyes, but without withdrawing his hand. "We have known each other for over 6000 years, and we have been friends from the very beginning, despite being on opposite sides of the board. I care about you "sighed the angel", and I know that you do in retribution. So for the friendship we have and for all we have been suffered together, I ask you, no, I beg you just let me leave. "  
The angel withdrew his hand and stood up, ready to go.  
"The bookstore will be closed until my return, but it will always be open for you, of course, if you need it."  
"Thanks, angel. Be very careful, okay."  
Aziraphale smiled, holding a veil of sadness in his eyes. "Do not worry; I'm not so easy to discorporate. Remember that I was the guardian of East Gate once."  
"Yes, and even though, you lost your sword ..."  
"Goodbye, Crowley"  
"Goodbye, angel "

London- Now- Two days after the Almostgeddon  
The Almostgeddon had arrived, and what could have been a big problem for many people globally had been satisfactorily resolved locally. Successfully for most, of course. For those who had hoped to go to war (finally) after 6000 years, the conflict's resolution had left them with a certain anticlimactic feeling, to put it in some way.  
Fortunately, Agnes the Nutter had provided a small escape route for the angel and demon who had dared to face the celestial and hellish hosts, so now they were both enjoying a well-deserved dinner at the Ritz, dinner that for once Crowley was willing to pay.  
"Well, angel, will I take you somewhere?" Said the demon, offering his arm to the angel, on a warm summer night.  
Aziraphale looked at him with a strange expression on his face (that Crowley could not decipher) but accepted the demon's offer.  
"I do not know, Crowley. I'd tell you to go to the bookstore, but Adam has restored everything except the wine I kept there. It seems that a box of Chateau de Yquem is not worthy of being replaced "sighed Aziraphale" At least not from the Antichrist's point of view ".  
"We can go to my place if you want. It is not far away, and I am sure that I keep some bottle of wine from the last time you were in France."  
"The last time? That was in between the wars! Undoubtedly it has become vinegary! How do you let a French wine ruin, Crowley? One thing is being a demon, and another thing is being a heartless creature. "  
"Calm down, angel. They are perfect. I put them under a spell. I'm not just a pretty face, you know? I have a whole brain behind these eyes "the devil laughed, pointing to himself.  
Aziraphale snorted funny "I see that modesty is still not one of your virtues."  
"I am a demon. I do not have a virtuous bone in my whole body."  
"Oh, come on, dear. I do not know who you're trying to cheat, but it doesn't work. I've seen you saving the world, Crowley. I've seen you face off Satan with the crank of an old Bentley's clank in one hand and a foolish angel by your side. "  
"Come on, angel. I could not have done it without you fur sure. After all, you're my best friend. We are screwed if we can't trust our best friends".  
A painful expression so imperceptible that Crowley had not seen it if he was not looking at Aziraphale crossed the face of the angel. Crowley chose not to say anything, even though the heart he thought was dead in his chest decided that this was an excellent time to start beating devilishly fast. Hope is a bitch, the demon thought sourly.  
Crowley's apartment was an ultramodern monster that Aziraphale did not like. Not that it was not pretty, that it was, in its cold, industrial way. The problem was that it did not fit with the sparkling personality of its owner. Crowley was full of life, and that space looked like a morgue. The only place that revealed the owner's nature was the greenhouse with the plants. The lush green foliage reminded Aziraphale of the time they had spent in the Garden, which he supposed was the reason why Crowley has the plants there.  
Crowley opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. He waited patiently until the angel had emptied his to fill it and then ...  
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, angel?  
Aziraphale almost choked on the wine "Nothing happens to me, Crowley," he managed to say between coughs.  
"Angel, do not lie to me."  
"I do not do it."  
"Aziraphale," he said in a sigh, "You're lying to me. I know you do. Do you know how I know it? Because I have memorized each of your traits throughout these fucking 6000 years. I know when you get excited suddenly with something because you raise your eyebrows and open your eyes wide. I know when you are pensive because you raise an eyebrow and bite your low lip, I know when you are sad because your gaze seems lost somewhere in space. I know every expression and every twitch you have, and I know, right now, you are lying to me because you are unable to look directly at my eyes and you are making your knuckles sound. So, Aziraphale, what the shit happens to you. "Crowley screamed. "We just went through hellfire; we won, we're free. No more agreement, no more temptations, no more good actions unless we want to. You should be happy. Tell me, please". The demon begged. "I can’t help you if you don't."  
"That's the problem, Crowley. No more agreement, no more Us, we no longer need each other. I will go back to my bookstore and you to whatever you do in your life. No more excuses to see us, no more plans, no more dinners, no more. "  
"But I do not understand you, angel. Now we can be friends without hiding, now we do not have the eyes of the others in our neck, now you decide that you do not want to continue with our friendship? Crowley shouted while the anger was growing inside him, seeing Aziraphale walking around the room, on the one hand, the glass of wine and the other rubbing his neck. "Why, damn it? "  
"Because I'm in love with you and it kills me you do not feel the same!" Aziraphale shouted in response. "It kills me seeing you every day, not touching you because I believe that if I touch you I will consume myself in flames, It kills me hearing your laughs because they make my heart pump madly here," he said pointing at his chest "It kills me seeing you smile because you make me want to cry of happiness. It kills me you want to be my friend when I have not seen you like that for a long time, but I have no right to ask you anything ... Aziraphale said this last word in a low voice, with his head bowed, tears running down his face, blurring his beautiful blue eyes.  
"Since when?"  
"1975"

Soho- London, 1975  
Aziraphale opened the door of his bookstore and took a deep breath. His home beloved smell caused tears to flood his eyes. It had only been eight years since he left, but emotionally? Emotionally, a thousand years had passed since he had last been in London. Fortunately, the flight that had brought him from the other side of the world had passed without incident; he had arrived safe and sound; at last, he was at home.  
The angel turned on itself while checking the general state of the library. At first sight, it was all right, full of dust and with some cobwebs, but basically, everything was correct. He knew he should not do it, but felt so tired, physically and emotionally, that instead of waiting for the next day and using the duster and furniture wax he clicked his fingers and magically everything was clean and waxed. With a sigh and dragging his feet, he went to the small space where he had his room, dropped on the bed, and although he never used to sleep, closed his eyes and let himself to be carried in the arms of Morpheus.  
The nightmare always started in the same way. A military squadron burst into the village where the angel was healing people. With machine-guns, they shattered the skulls of the patients while aiming at Aziraphale in the chest and forced him to leave the improvised hospital. There, in the village square places ban the locals and then ...  
Fortunately, Aziraphale always woke up at this point, as if his unconscious wanted to protect him from the emotional impact. Fortunately, he had given time to warn the people of the town before the killers arrived, but he had paid dearly for his good deed. The long, deep wound on his side had been reminding him every day of the last six months, while he was delirious in a dirty hospital. Too weak to heal himself, he had barely managed to contain the infection. The face that returned the mirror now was only a shadow of what it had been.  
Aziraphale looked at the clock on the table. 6 a.m. Miraculously he had managed to sleep almost 12 hours. He grimaced, now his whole body felt stale and aching, as well as the punctures of the wound were healing. Slowly, he got up from the bed, carefully. Hell, at that moment he felt the weight of each one of the almost 6000 years that he was like a weight on his back.  
Carefully he went to the shower and turned on the hot water. Technically he could get rid of all the dirt he felt with a simple gesture, but the angel knew that what he needed now was to feel clean, rather than to be cleaned. He undressed carefully; each movement cost him horrors to realize. His body, once lush and vigorous, was consumed since he had destined all his heavenly energy to heal the infection. Oh, there it was. The dark and ugly machete scar that almost cost him his life, even red, so raw. Aziraphale ran a finger lightly over it. Maybe at some point later he could make it disappear, as he had done with so many scars so many other times, but for the moment, he did not feel the need or the desire to do so.  
He got under the hot water, as hot as he could stand and put his head on the tiles, feeling grateful for its freshness. He wondered himself, not for the first time, about Crowley. Oh, if he could go back to that night when he gave him the thermos of holy water, he would not have been so foolish to let him escape. He would have said yes, yes, yes, thousand times yes. He would have accepted Crowley would take him anywhere, he would have embraced him and done all the things that Aziraphale had dreamed during his delirious episodes of fever. Their naked bodies, their intertwined tongues, the warmth of his body, his incredible golden eyes that he insisted on hiding and that Aziraphale found so astonishing ... a deep moan began to form from the deep inside of the angel's chest, a mixture of pain and despair, while he let himself slide slowly towards the floor of the shower, curling into a fetal position, with the hot water falling onto him.  
The weeks passed, with more or less formality. Aziraphale thought about calling Crowley a thousand times a day and a thousand times more he found an excuse not to do it. It was true that sometimes years had passed, sometimes decades until they saw each other again, but he had never needed to see him. He was glad to meet him; they laughed together, they told each other stories, they drunk as Lords. But Neediness had never marked their encounters.  
He did not know when he had started thinking about Crowley in terms of Need. First times, he was surprised himself thinking "I must tell Crowley about this ", by the time he began to understand a little more the anger Crowley feels against Heaven and Hell, more than once he had found himself angry, with his nails stuck in the palms of his hands, feeling how the rage was growing. Why does She not do something in the right way? he asked himself every day. The people who were around him did not deserve to be mere pawns. They had had dreams and hopes before death and war had fallen on them in blood and fire.  
Despair had made him start to have imaginary dialogues with his devil; such was his necessity to be with him, to tell him that he had finally understood. At night, in the middle of the jungle, he used to imagine that he was at his side, whispering him forbidden words in his ear, that his own hands were Crowley's instead, while he slid them down his body, seeking his own satisfaction while some bitter tears of guilt and shame were spilled.  
Later, in the hospital, in fever's arms, with parched lips and lit body he had dreamed of him, with his gorgeous thick coppery hair, and his Machiavellian smile, with his forked tongue and long fingers, running through each centimeter of his skin. The pain and desperately needed for the demon had caused him episodes of uncontrollable sobs, his body inflamed by desire and fever.  
The weeks went turning into months, and slowly, the bookstore began to develop its routine again. Aziraphale gradually began to go out more often; he began to go around the neighborhood again, discovering places that had not been there eight years ago. Special attention had been paid to Wilder’s, a small pub that had meal service, two blocks from his shop. It was not French food, but that was not what Aziraphale needed either. The angel used to go there three or four days a week, eager for human warmth. In fact, he would prefer some demoniac heat, but the human seemed much safer.  
"A penny for your thoughts, sweetie," The waiter told him one night when Aziraphale had thrown the caution overboard and had decided to get drunk.  
The waiter had heard about Aziraphale, of course. The distinguished "diplomat", member of the peace corps who had returned from the war tortured and traumatized and who had decided to continue with the family business that his uncle had bequeathed eight years before.  
Aziraphale returned a glazed look for alcohol.  
"How do you know you're in love? I mean, love is one thing. I know what love is, I'm practically made of love. I love plants, animals, people, I love God, sometimes I even love Gabriel, that asshole. I am supposed to love all of creation without having favorites and in a pure and solemn way."  
And what's the problem, dear?  
"The problem is what I feel for Crowley is nothing solemn or pure, and certainly not clean, oh no, what I feel for him is something filthy, like all the dirty things I want to do with him, and I want him to do me. But at the same time when I think about him I know that my heart is going to explode and that my head is spinning and that the chills run up and down, and I feel like I want to spend the rest of eternity with him because he brings me chocolates and it makes me laugh, and it makes me angry and everything is brighter at his side... "  
"And I repeat it again, what's the problem, sweetie?  
"I screwed the whole thing," Aziraphale said, through tears.  
And you can’t undo it? Can’t you call him and tell what's wrong with you or how do you feel?  
"I do not know; it's been a long time."  
"Look, sweetheart, the longer you let it pass, the more difficult it will be for you to take the step, and one day you will find that you can’t do it. So, finish that beer, go home and as soon as you can tell your Crowley how much you love him. Oh, and do not worry about the dirty things you want to do. Being in love means wanting to do that kind of thing "replied the waiter with a smile.

  
London- News  
"You never came."  
Aziraphale had his back to him while looking through the large windows as night fell on London.  
"I didn't. A few weeks later, while I was gathering the courage to tell you what I was feeling, I saw a photo of you with the group, so ... integrated, so happy. You put your arm around him, you smiled at him as you had once done to me, and I broke. How would I compete with him? I had seen him, you know, in some shows. His magnetism, his strength. It was like a star that caught everyone under its orbit. And months later, he came to the bookstore. I do not know if he told you; I just know that I never did it because ... well, it was painful. It still is. He came looking for a gift for his lover, Anthony. "  
"Did you know it was me?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale let out a sad giggle.  
"Of course I did. There are not many Anthonys with devilish language skills, huh? Yes, I knew immediately the reason why he had come. People are people, and their feelings and emotions are usually the same throughout the millennia. He came to mark his territory as if I were some kind of adversary or rival for him, little nonsense. I would have laughed, but he was suffering so much, Crowley! I noticed how he loved you, how he was afraid of losing you. The waves of love and fear were so intense and so constant. And when he talked about you, he was all enlightened; his dark eyes shone like burnished wood. He had known how to love you when I could not or even wanted; I do not know. He was not afraid to shout at the four winds his love for you, while I drowned my feelings under layers and layers of guilt and shame. He had had more courage than an angel from Heaven. So I took all the emotions I felt for you and kept them under lock and key. I continued with my life, my books, some actions in charge of Heaven, more or less as before, only this time without you. "  
"Until 1991."  
"Until 1991,"

Soho-November 1991  
Aziraphale was closing the store. Large clouds were threatening rain on that dreary day in the ends of November. The north wind lowered the thermal sensation several degrees, and the streets of Soho were strangely empty for a Sunday afternoon. They were the weeks before Christmas and that weekend had been quite busy, although he had been lucky and had not sold any of his books. A satisfied smirk spread across his face. He must be the only bookseller who hated to get rid of his books.  
While he was preparing to make a hot chocolate to drink and reading some pages, somebody rang in the door. Missed, the angel was on guard. He was not expecting anyone, and the closed sign was on, so he sneaked up to the door.  
"Aziraphale, open the damn door if you do not want me to throw it down. I know you are there.  
Crowley? said the angel, as he hurried to open the door. ¿ But that ...?  
There, in the doorway was the devil. They have not seen each other for 24 years. Aziraphale did not expect the breath of despair he felt when he opened the door taking his breath away. But there was Crowley, completely drunk, crying inconsolably. The demon threw itself into his arms as he sobbed incoherently. The angel, surpassed, materialized them in his room, on his bed.  
Crowley was trembling, he embraced the angel, who had not seen from years. The only thing Aziraphale understood between sobs was "he is no longer there, he is gone, I could have helped him, I could have healed him, but he did not want to, he did not want to. It would be my fault; if I just had known it before ... "  
The angel, kindly, asked "Crowley, dear, tell me who ... "  
"Freddie "  
"Aaahhh," thought the angel. "Then, it was true. Poor guy."  
The angel held his friend for the long hours that followed, while the demon alternated episodes of crying with sweet memories.  
"You know that I was the muse behind Bohemian Rhapsody ?" he whispered to Aziraphale. "We were talking about Fausto and souls. I told him that was silly, that we did not work like that and he told me I was a buzzkill."  
Aziraphale listened for hours every anecdote Crowley had shared with his lover, while lovingly stroking the demon's hair. Slowly sobs were spacing, the moments of silence were longer, and finally, Crowley slept with a smile in the arms of Aziraphale, which remained awake, warning his friend's dreams.  
Crowley still stayed a few weeks at Aziraphale's house, but they never shared the bed again. Aziraphale gave it gladly, anyway he rarely slept, preferred to remain reading at night. After those weeks Crowley returned to his apartment and the routine, which had been interrupted between them for 24 years, resumed. Crowley would pick him up, either with the car or, if the temperature was suitable, on foot. If Aziraphale had people in the bookstore, he used to wait in a chair taking a little nap. Everything went smoothly for a while, until 2007, when a small basket was given to Crowley, with some exact instructions ...

London - Now  
Crowley got up and went to Aziraphale. The angel was still with his eyes closed and resting his forehead on the window glass. Tears burned behind his eyelids. The pain he had thought he had suffocated for 43 years threatened to open a hole in his chest.  
Crowley came up behind him, hugged him and rested his head on Aziraphale's shoulder  
"What am I going to do with you, angel? He whispered in his ear, while Aziraphale trembled like a leaf.  
"What do you mean?" The angel hiccupped.  
Crowley turned him over so that he could cradle his face with his hands and said, looking into his eyes. "Do you think that all we have bundled together, all the effort to stop the Apocalypse, all the risks that we have run, I have taken only for the benefit of humanity? A big part, yes, but I also did it because I needed more time. Time to tell you how I feel, time to discover if your feelings had changed or not, time to be by your side another 6000 years, more time, my love, more time to rediscover the world together, to take you to all those places I've been and where I thought "This is going to pleasure Aziraphale".  
Aziraphale could not tear his gaze away from Crowley's handsome serpentine eyes. Those eyes he loved so much were returning a look as full of love as Aziraphale had never seen.  
Slowly, with an immense delicacy, that did not betray the unrestrained throbbing of his heart, Crowley closed the space that separated him from Aziraphale, his soft lips brushed the parted lips of the angel, who received the kiss as a thirsty flower receives the first drops of rainwater.  
Aziraphale felt as lightning pierced him from side to side, his breathing stopped, his mind disappeared, imbibed in that kiss. A kiss he had never expected to receive and did not feel worthy. A kiss that was bringing to the surface all the love and all the passion that the angel had locked in his chest year after year, a kiss that was generating waves of heat from the depths of his being.  
Crowley separated gently from Aziraphale. The demon caressed reverently with the tips of his fingers the face of the angel. How many years, how many hours lost dreaming of this moment, the moment when he could finally hold his beloved angel in his arms and whisper to him his crazy dreams of love, full of hope and passion.  
Crowley took Aziraphale by the hand, interlaced his fingers and led him to the greenhouse. There, between the luxuriant green and the scent of nocturnal flowers, on a carpet and cushions, under the light of the stars, Crowley was unveiling, layer by layer the body of his beloved, while kissing each of the parts he was discovering. When he reached the wound that pierced his side, the demon felt tears come to his eyes.  
"I wish I'd been there for you," he lamented.  
"If you had been there, this scar would be on yours, and I would never forgive myself," Aziraphale whispered. "You were always with me, that gave me the courage to continue," the angel confessed, smiling.  
Crowley leaned back on the cushions and placed Aziraphale on his chest, while the angel fervently kissed the pale neck of the demon. Crowley dropped the head back, transported by the intensity of the feelings the angel caused him. Aziraphale's hands caressed shyly on Crowley's chest, delighting in its softness, the contact sending small shivers up and down.  
The sweet sounds through Crowley's throat made Aziraphale behave more boldly, covering the demon's body with his lips, leaving hot and wet kisses where he passed, causing the devil an increasing spiral of desire and lust impossible to contain.  
"Aziraphale, my love ..." he whispered between gasps "You go too fast for me."  
The angel stopped, reluctantly, a moment that Crowley took to put Aziraphale under him. The print he gave Crowley, the bright eyes, the tousled white hair, the flushed cheeks, and the lips parted and swollen by his kisses provoked in Crowley a desire to protect him so intensely that it was painful.  
"I never thought this day would come," Crowley whispered, mesmerized, stroking a messy curl.  
Aziraphale smiled at him, his eyes full of love and drew him to himself, kissing him, imprinting the kiss with all the strength and hope he could manage.  
And so, kiss after kiss, they continued loving each other all night long, and when at some point, the climax ran through their bodies and the wings were unfolded in response, a shower of black and white feathers covered the two lovers, who embraced each other, fall slept under the shining stars.


End file.
